


Lesson

by theamazingfrog



Series: Haldonia.tv [1]
Category: Haldonia
Genre: Beheading, Blood, OCs - Freeform, Original Character(s), Sarcasm, Tags Are Hard, golathi is racist, haldonia - Freeform, ruining a perfectly good throne, sword - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 11:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theamazingfrog/pseuds/theamazingfrog
Summary: ft. Relis Yemaille and His Benevolence, King Golathi.In which a king is taught a valuable lesson about being rude to people with swords.





	Lesson

The doors to the throne room burst open. An old man stands alone, breathing heavily with blood on his hands that shows silver and red in the evening sunlight. His sword clatters to the floor, the metallic sound echoing around the room. 

 

Dust fills the air, defining the rays of orange-pink sunlight which pour in through the windows, casting almond-shaped shadows onto the marble floor. Above the throne, there is a glass dome, through which the sky can be seen. It’s a vivid purple-blue, the colour of broken hearts and hundred-mile-deep water, lit up by the sunset which is objectively one of the most violently beautiful that Haldonia has ever seen or ever will see, contested only by the visions of the end of the world that were seen in the fountain of magic. Around the throne room, victory hangs in the air. 

 

Draped elegantly across the throne is a young man whose eyes are closed and whose mouth is drawn into a peaceful smile. His long green hair spills out over the plush velvet of one arm and his legs are thrown carelessly over the other. His chest slowly rises and falls with no indication of consciousness. The sunlight on his skin and the flowers surrounding the throne make him seem like he’s part of an Andestian oil painting depicting some forgotten god’s young lover, preserved eternally in the stars and on the canvas. 

 

“Who are you supposed to be?” The king does not realize yet that his reign is over, his throne usurped by the laurdel before him who His Benevolence believes he holds the right to execute if he does not “Get off my throne this instant!”

The stranger on his throne replies without missing a beat. “Get out of my throne room and I will,” Golathi sputters with indignance. “Relis Yemaille. I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you but it’s really… not.” He sits up and brushes his hair out of his face, puts his arms on those of the chair and leans forward and suddenly he looks more like the forgotten god than the lover, as if he could turn the fiery sunset into a violent thunderstorm with a snap of his fingers, burning the palace to the ground. 

“I don’t care about your name! Get off my throne!” Golathi stamps his foot without meaning to, pointing at Relis and then at the door.

“How childish. You’d think someone as old as you would realise that good manners are important for a ruler, but I suppose you’re past just forgetting your manners.” Relis narrows his eyes and gestures to Golathi’s silver-coated hand. His voice remains level and calm, like a parent dealing with a naughty child. Golathi marches closer to the throne. “What are you going to do? Kill me?” Golathi stops in his tracks and nods. “With the sword you left by the door?” Relis continues, and the golden sword appears in his hand. It’s coated with a thin layer of silver and red, the blood of laurdels and humans mixed together as evidence that Golathi does not, in fact, give two shits about anybody other than himself. “You’d probably do it, so I’ll just have to borrow this and return the favour.” He hums and wipes the blood off on the throne, eliciting a whimper from Golathi. “Oh, be quiet. It’ll wash off.”

 

Standing up, Relis adjusts his grip on the sword and walks towards Golathi, who visibly tenses and clenches his fists. “Go on then, kill me. Do it and watch as my people burn you at the stake for killing their beloved king.” He holds his arms out and mutters to himself, “not that a monster like you could land a blow on me anyway.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Relis sneers, “your people? They’re living in the streets, starving, dying, good luck getting them to do anything that’d benefit you. You’ve got the fountain of magic in your palace and could solve every problem but for money’s sake you don’t. You don’t deserve to be run through with your own sword, you deserve a long and painful death, and to rot in the caverns of Markem.”

Golathi laughs. It’s not a malicious laugh, deep and hearty, the laugh of a king who knows his enemy is wrong, nor is it a scornful laugh, short and sharp, the laugh of a king who believes his enemy is wrong but knows he isn’t. The laugh which escapes from Golathi’s throat is high-pitched and nervous and totally undignified. He’s never been spoken to like that before and he certainly does not want to experience it again.

“You have the  _ audacity _ ,” He says shakily, “to come into  _ my _ palace, dirty  _ my _ throne, and tell me such bold-faced lies about  _ my _ people? Excuse you, laurdel, I don’t care for your fabrications. My people adore me, they grovel at my feet and would disembowel themselves on command; they don’t call me Benevolence for nothing you know, and I don’t know nor do I care how you found out about the fountain but I can assure you you should have said nothing because now I shall have to kill you for mentioning it, not that I didn’t want to do so before-”

 

Golathi stops talking not because he runs out of breath but because his head is sliced clean off by his own sword.

 

“By the saviours, nobody cares!” Relis mutters as Golathi’s body drops ungracefully, like a sack of stones. The thud echoes around the room for a moment. “You know, I wanted to keep you alive for long enough to make you understand that you’re in the wrong, but I can’t stand your voice. All nasally and posh and ‘ _ they don’t call me benevolence for nothing you know’ _ , shut up! It’s a joke! You’re a dick!” He kicks the head out of the way and sits back down on the throne, admiring his work. 

 

The sunset, fiery. The king, dead. His head, elsewhere. The scene, set.

**Author's Note:**

> part one of a potentially 153-part series with the sole function of allowing me to practice my writing. based off of a list of single-word prompts which I'm just gonna work through until I find an actual plotline to connect all these characters together :))


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